


A Certain Resemblance

by anneapocalypse



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dick Jokes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:28:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29741508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/pseuds/anneapocalypse
Summary: "Look, nobody's saying it," the Inquisitor says, setting down his waterskin with purpose, "but we're all thinking it."
Relationships: Male Adaar/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	A Certain Resemblance

"Look, nobody's saying it," the Inquisitor says, setting down his waterskin with purpose, "but we're all thinking it."

They've been out in the Hissing Wastes for what has felt like two weeks and has in actuality been more like four days. Dorian has spent much of his time in Ferelden and the Frostbacks complaining about the cold and is now rather sorry for it. They pass the unbearable days out here sweating in the shade of their tents, trying to scrape out a bit of sleep, and move in the cool of night.

Even then, the air is harsh and dry. Dreadful for the skin. There is sand in Dorian's hair, and in his teeth, and in more _intimate_ places, and were it not for the promise of time off—and _alone—_ with Adaar upon return to Skyhold, he would never have agreed to trek out to this miserable place.

Ah, who does he think he's fooling. For those soft grey eyes, anything.

"We're all listening, love," Dorian says, and takes a swallow from his waterskin. Breakfast is desert rations—dried meat, dried fruit, nuts, what stores can travel well and keep in the heat. Like everything else out here, dry.

Adaar places his big hands purposefully on his knees, and casts a grave look around the circle of their compatriots, gathered for breakfast in the deepening twilight. "Amrita vein looks like dicks."

"Maker's breath," Blackwall mutters.

Varric slaps his knee, laughing. "Can always count on you for the dazzling insights, Inquisitor."

The Iron Bull lets out a roar of laughter. "I mean, he's not wrong!"

"I was _not_ thinking that," Cassandra says indignantly.

Sera snickers. "I was."

Madame de Fer merely sighs. She too looks as though she would rather be absolutely anywhere else—but without the incentive of such fond company as Dorian enjoys. Solas is across camp, fiddling with his staff, pretending not to be listening at all, but Dorian detects a hint of a smile on his face. Over by the requisitions table, Harding and the other scouts have dissolved into giggles.

"It does _not,"_ Cassandra insists and, Maker bless her, plucks a pale blossom from the nearby herb basket, still erect on its thick green stem, and gestures at it impatiently. "There are _—leaves,_ sticking out, all along here, and—"

"Can't see the spiky bits at a distance," Sera says, shrugging.

"Coming up over the rise of a hill?" Adaar says. "Silhouetted in moonlight? Dick. Unmistakable."

"Fully mistakable," Blackwall says with a grunt, tearing another bite from his strip of ram jerky.

"Exactly," Adaar says, nodding firmly. "Mistakable for a dick."

"Diiiiiiiicks," Sera adds helpfully.

Cassandra utters a disgusted noise, and flings the offending flower back into the basket.

"I'm afraid the Inquisitor speaks the truth," Dorian says mildly, polishing the dust from the everite clasps of his armor with his thumb. "The resemblance is undeniable."

Adaar flashes him a smile. Sweet as if it were just the two of them. "Thank you, love."

"Silhouetted in moonlight," Cole echoes, tilting his head thoughtfully under his tremendous hat. "On the balcony, tall and taller under the moon, smell of snow in the air. Some things look like what they're not. What will it look like, what will they see, which way will _he_ look, after—?"

"That's enough of that, then," Dorian interjects. The lad means no harm, but he still doesn't appear to grasp the concept of _personal_.

"Get a rooooooom," Sera taunts through a mouthful of dried apple. "Get a tent."

"Not now," Adaar says, in that tone of his that sounds completely serious if you don't happen to be looking him in the eye at the time. He claps both hands to his knees and rises. "Wasting the dark. Lot of sand to cross tonight."

"Dicks to pick," Sera agrees.

"Dorian, Bull, Sera," Adaar says, nodding. "With me?"

Dorian flashes a smile back. "Without a doubt."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
